The Edge of Wherever
by Little Orphaned Yuletide
Summary: When thinking back, he couldn't pinpoint what it was about the meeting that sent his senses on the road to betraying him, but he could pinpoint when it started: the moment he shook hands with the young man—with Fabrizio.


Disclaimer: I don't own Titanic, the ship or the movie.

Pairing: Tommy Ryan/Fabrizio

Warning: Canon character deaths

**The Edge of Wherever**

Written by FJW for Matilde as part of Yuletide 2009

**11 April 1912**

_Afternoon_

After he'd stowed his meagre belongings and ate his fill at lunchtime, Tommy Ryan made his way to the boat deck to enjoy a bit of fresh air. He leaned back against the rail and took a deep, cleansing breath. He'd always loved the refreshingly sweet scent of spring and the salty tang of the ocean air only added to his delight. Combined with the warmth of the afternoon sun on his face, he doubted he could think of anything more pleasant. Lighting a cigarette and tilting his hat back a bit higher on his head, he closed his eyes and just _basked_ for a while.

When Titanic picked up her last batch of passengers that morning in Queenstown, Tommy had been lucky enough to be one of them. He wasn't usually one to put much stock in luck, but it certainly seemed like his new beginning, his new_ life_, was shaping up to be a good one.

While he wasn't running away from anything, per se, in going to America—to anyone who asked, he'd say he was going for the opportunities, the freedom, the American dream—he could not deny the appeal of starting over in a place where nobody knew him, his history, or his proclivities. He'd be judged, sure, but it'd be _because_ he was unknown, just another one of thousands. That would definitely be a welcome change.

'The ship is nice, huh?'

The question came, it seemed, from far away, cutting through his sun-drenched musings. Tommy looked up to find a young Italian man waiting for his answer, eager to start a conversation, to make a friend. Later, his memory of the conversation was a jumble of dogs and shite, angels and arses, and big Irish hands. When thinking back, he couldn't pinpoint what it was about the meeting that sent his senses on the road to betraying him, but he could pinpoint _when_ it started: the moment he shook hands with the young man—with Fabrizio.

**11 April 1912**

_Evening_

'So, Fabrizio, what leads you to America?' Tommy asked, mopping up some stew with a piece of freshly baked bread. 'Family?'

Fabrizio shook his head as he finished swallowing a mouthful of food. 'Not family,' he said. He took a long pull on his drink before finishing with a slightly breathless, 'Destiny.'

Tommy laughed for a moment, but the laughter caught in his throat when Fabrizio's earnest expression didn't falter. 'What, you... you can't be serious... _Destiny_?'

'Before Titanic, me and Jack, we have no money, no job, no plan. We win our tickets in a poker game. _Five minutes_ before she sails. Call it fate, or—or _Provvidenza_, or destiny, but this ship...' He ran his hand over the tabletop. 'I am _supposed_ to be on this ship.'

Fabrizio was so solemn, so heartfelt, that Tommy almost yearned to believe him, against all his better judgement and experience. There was something about the warm innocence in his eyes that tried to melt the icy veneer of cynicism Tommy wore to protect him against the cruelty of the world.

'You learn to expect the worst out of life, boyo, and you'll never be disappointed,' he often said. Often enough that his mates were all tired of hearing it, when he tried to discourage them from whatever flight of fancy they might dream up. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to say it now, would not—no, _could_ not—be the cause of what he saw as Fabrizio's inevitable disillusionment. There was just something about his eyes...

Tearing his gaze away before he went too far down _that_ alley—a dark, dangerous, deadly alley, in his experience—he reached for his glass. Clearing his throat, he raised the glass and said, 'To destiny, then.'

'To _destino_,' said Fabrizio, with a contented smile on his face.

Tommy's heart migrated north to his throat for a bit before plunging down to dance with the twinging bumblebees in his belly. He drained his glass quickly and reached for another. _You're bloody pathetic, you hopeless fool_, he berated himself silently. _Get your mind off of that, while you still have your wits about you. Or what's left of them, at any rate._

Setting his glass down on the table roughly enough to slosh its contents over the rim, he stood and said, 'All right, lads, who's up for a bit of arm wrestling? Let's liven the place up, shall we?'

**13 April 1912**

_Morning_

Tommy had drunk too much Thursday night and slept too late the next morning. Despite his efforts at distraction, his sleep had been plagued with warm brown eyes and carefree smiles.

He had spent most of the day Friday avoiding the subject of his dreams, reminding himself this was supposed to be his new life, a fresh start. It seemed a waste to begin it by falling yet again for a man who would not—likely, _could_ not—return his feelings. It seemed a waste to leave a place where people whispered about him being _that kind_ of bachelor, only to start the whispers himself once he'd left it behind.

He was a practical man, a logical man. He'd known it would only be a matter of time before some beauty caught Fabrizio's eye and dashed even Tommy's wildest dreams. He'd done such a good job strengthening his resolve that by Saturday morning, when Fabri took a liking to the blonde Norwegian girl, Helga, he took it in stride with nary more than a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head.

He knew his place as well as anyone. Better than most, even. No one challenges the status quo, not really. It just wasn't done. Fabrizio was simply a confirmation of his world-weariness.

Tommy was admiring Jack Dawson's drawings when an unusual silence rippled across the room. He looked up from the artwork and his heart skipped a beat.

_You'd as like have angels fly out of your arse as get next to the likes of her._

The girl on the boat deck from his mixed-up memories, the porcelain princess from the Almighty First Class, had descended to the depths of steerage. To speak with penniless Dawson, of all things.

Tommy was stunned. In all of two minutes, the world had turned on its head. He didn't know how Jack managed such an unimaginable feat, but there she was just the same, a jewel-toned goddess among earth-toned drabness. A startled giggle bubbled out of him when he met Fabrizio's grinning eyes and his laughter was infectious—Fabrizio giggled along with him.

A strange lightness spread over him as he felt an irrational flutter of hope dance through his chest. He tried to quash it and failed.

**13 April 1912**

_Late Evening_

Tommy plinked his way across the piano keys, the general room and the upright both abandoned by revellers in favour of berth and bed. He'd spent the night amusing himself with his ale and arm-wrestling while Jack cavorted with the upper crust and Fabrizio tried to pantomime love. It was as raucous, as rousing a party as any he'd attended recently. He decided a few stolen minutes alone before heading back to his bunk and his snoring roommates would do him a world of good.

'You play?'

_Fabrizio. Of course._ Tommy sighed and glanced back over his shoulder. 'My granddad used to have a piano, but we had to sell it when he died. I noodle around when I get a chance.' He smiled wistfully. 'Not very often now.'

Fabrizio sat next to him on the piano bench, forcing him to budge over to make room. Still, the length of their thighs pressed together on the tiny bench. His playing faltered.

'Maybe... maybe you have your own one day?'

Tommy snorted out a laugh. 'Fabri, you're...' _Lovely_, he thought. He shook his head and finished with a less dangerous notion. '...hopelessly optimistic, aren't you?'

Fabrizio fell silent as he watched Tommy's hands move across the keys. Every so often, his thigh would tense against him, as if he was wanted to move but couldn't make himself follow through. It was deliciously... distracting.

'Tommy...' he trailed off. It was a few moments before he spoke again. 'I feel like I am _pazzo_ for saying this, but...' And off he went again into silence. Suddenly, he reached out and rested a hand atop one of Tommy's on the piano, accidentally playing a lingering, discordant note. '_Tue mani_—your hands, they are beautiful.'

Tommy's breathing was shallow and his heartbeat echoed in his ears as he sat, speechless, watching and feeling Fabrizio caress his hand. It didn't matter that he could see it with his own two eyes, it was so fantastical, he scarcely believed it could really be happening.

'You're drunk,' he finally choked out, his mouth impossibly dry.

'No more than you,' Fabrizio returned, leaning a bit closer.

'Fabri, you're not thinking clearly. You—We can't do... _this_.'

Fabrizio shifted to face Tommy more fully, a knee on the bench, an arm round Tommy's shoulders, a hand atop his on the keys. When Fabri's lips met his, Tommy's mind stopped struggling to make sense of everything and just... felt.

**14 April 1912**

_Early Afternoon_

'She's a goddess among mortal men, there's no denying. But she's in another world, Jackie, forget her.' In the light of day, Tommy found himself falling back into old patterns. Convincing Jack Dawson he was crazy for pursuing Rose despite his cold reception earlier that morning being top of the list. Still, he helped give Jack a leg up to First Class. Perhaps his heart truly softened the night before.

'He's not being logical, I tell you,' Tommy said as he turned to climb back down to the boat deck with Fabrizio.

'_Amore_ isn't logical,' Fabrizio replied.

_Aye_, Tommy thought as they were shooed back to Third Class. _That it isn't. That is isn't._

**14 April 1912**

_11:50 PM_

_Of course everything has to go to shite again_, Tommy thought as he struggled with his sweater.

The cold water had already soaked his boots by the time he made it to the hallway and started running. His roommates were busy pounding on doors as they passed, rousing passengers and spreading the bad news, while he could only focus on one thing: reaching Fabrizio.

The man in question opened his door just as Tommy reached it, wandering out confused and barefoot. Tommy urged him to dress and waited. Soon, Fabrizio joined him and the others, following the rats out of the maze of corridors that was Titanic.

The next two hours were a rush of dizzying white halls, locked gates, panic and confusion, against a backdrop of freezing water and human tragedy.

For Tommy, everything ended with a sudden _BANG_.

**15 April 1912**

_2:10 AM_

Once the foggy sluggishness of his mind cleared, the first thing Tommy noticed was the warmth. He'd been so cold and so wet for so long, he couldn't remember anything as pleasant as the bone-deep warmth that permeated his being.

The second thing he noticed was the lack of pain. He moved his hand across his midsection and there was no hot, sticky blood, no wounded flesh. His shirt was as fine as it had been when he'd bought it, much finer even. It was crisp and clean and dry.

Slowly, he became aware that he wasn't alone. In this place, wherever 'this' was, he was surrounded by others, hundreds of others. There seemed to be more every minute, but despite the growing numbers, the place never filled, never felt overcrowded. Was this Heaven, he wondered, or was it the Hell everyone always told him he'd burn in? It certainly didn't seem like a happy place, but, again, he'd never felt so physically well in all his days.

A distant, muffled scream was the first noise he registered in this bizarrely silent place. He set off in the direction of the scream, feeling almost drawn to it. Trekking through the crowd was unexpectedly easy. No one seemed to move out of his way, yet no one _had_ to. Most of the others stood observing what seemed to be the source of the sound, which increased in volume and clarity the closer he got, but he still easily found a space near the edge of... wherever.

The sight before him took his breath away. As if he and the others were watching from a theatre balcony, the chaos aboard the sinking ship played out like the drama it was, only in shocking reality. Quickly scanning the slanting, swamped deck, he spotted the most surreal tableau he had ever seen: Fabrizio cradling Tommy's own bloody, lifeless body in his shaking arms, sobbing out an unintelligible mix of Italian and English, as Tommy's blood seeped across the boat deck to mix with the icy saltwater of the Atlantic.

'Why aren't you moving, you ruddy bastard?' Tommy called out. Fabrizio couldn't hear him, of course, and the powerlessness Tommy felt—observing, but unable to interfere—nearly crushed him. 'I'm gone, boyo,' he said, his voice breaking over the words. 'Quit carrying on and save yourself!'

The freezing water licking at his shins seemed to startle Fabrizio out of his shock. Tommy let out a small whoop of triumph as Fabri forced his trembling fingers to undo the knots on the bloodied life-belt. 'Good! Good man! That's more like it, now!'

A gentle hand on his arm interrupted his cheering. Tearing his attention away from the melee below, Tommy turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered man with a kind face and sad eyes standing before him. The man took one of Tommy's hands and just... held it... for a moment or two. He met Tommy's eyes and struggled for words for a moment before saying a simple, 'I am so sorry.'

Tommy watched as the man quietly made his way through the still-growing crowd, repeating his heartfelt apology to each person as he went. The man never spared a glance at the horror unfolding below.

A huge, twanging snap pulled Tommy's gaze away from the heartbroken man and back towards the sinking ship. The snap-twang-splash was quickly followed by another and another and another, as the cables supporting the forward funnel failed under the stress of the increasingly angled vessel. He caught sight of Fabrizio in the path of the creaking, crumpling funnel and—damn him if he was going to stand idly by and watch the man die—he rushed forward and leapt off the edge of wherever.

When he landed hard on his hands and knees, but without the tell-tale pain of such a jarring landing, he knew he'd been unsuccessful at breaching... here. He didn't know what he'd planned to do if he had actually made the jump. Apparently, he was every bit as fanciful and reckless in death as he never was in life.

'Why did you stay with me so long, Fabri?' he called out into the lightening darkness. Caught up in his grief as he was, he didn't notice the 'til-then-unseen ground under his hands and knees start to coalesce into something visible, recognisable, _familiar_.

'Tommy?'

He was sure if he had still been alive, he'd have got whiplash, his head turned so fast toward the voice. Once his eyes fell upon Fabrizio, he didn't dare look away, missing the floorboards form under his feet as he stood.

'Fabri...' he looked at the other man sadly. 'Why, Fabri? Why did you stay so long?'

'When I lose you,'—Fabrizio's voice broke—'I forget how to move, how to live. By the time I remember, it is too late.' Fabrizio face brightened, then, as great oak stair treads and railings materialised and grew. 'But I am still lucky.'

'That smokestack must have addled your brain, boyo, there's nothing lucky about what happened to you tonight!'

'No,' Fabrizio said, stepping closer. 'I am lucky.' Any further protest from Tommy was silenced as Fabrizio closed the rest of the distance between them and claimed his lips. Behind the pair, Honour and Glory crowned Time.

After a moment, Fabri pulled back and met Tommy's eyes. He ran a thumb over Tommy's stubbled cheek and said, 'I am the luckiest man in the world.'

For once, Tommy couldn't find reason to disagree.


End file.
